


(God, I) hope you're satisfied

by kleinergruenerkaktus



Series: What is the meaning of this? [3]
Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Aneros, Consent Play, D/s, Light Bondage, M/M, Porn with Feelings, Prostate Milking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-22
Updated: 2016-03-22
Packaged: 2018-05-28 07:14:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,575
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6319738
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kleinergruenerkaktus/pseuds/kleinergruenerkaktus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Oh, hey, you’re awake,” rumbles Holster from <em>jesus</em>, very close by, his morning-rough voice layered with a bunch of things that Ransom’s disoriented, panicking brain can’t identify right now. He’s breathing fast, hands clenched, the bones in his wrists straining against their cuffs, and he’s lifting his head off the pillow to turn it towards Holster’s voice when a hand pushes it back down and stays there, exerting a steady, quelling pressure.</p><p>“Don’t move.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	(God, I) hope you're satisfied

**Author's Note:**

> The prostate adventures continue! Good lord, this took forever. The consent play, in my head, is carefully prenegotiated; just not on screen. Traffic lights are invoked throughout and respected, but it's an emotionally intense scene, so if that combination sets off alarm bells, proceed with caution.
> 
> I've been remiss in answering comments - which I want to, because each and every single one of them has brightened my day, given me confidence, motivated me to write, and just generally enriched my life. So THANK YOU, lovely, lovely readers!
> 
> Finally - I am now a Pens fan. Ngozi, please consider the corruption of your beautiful, wholesome defensemen as payback for introducing me to the insanity that is ice hockey. We're even.

Sunlight.

It’s sunlight, bizarrely, that wakes him up, a hot stripe of it marching from the crack in the curtains across the floorboards, onto the mattress and over his right hand where it’s lying beside the pillow, slack fingers loosely curled. In the warm, reddish darkness of the attic early on Sunday, the light blazes his skin to the color of sand. 

He looks at it through slitted eyes, barely awake, too comfortable to move, when something unexpected snags in his peripheral vision. Something black. A band, wrapped snugly around his wrist. It must’ve been there a while, because Ransom had to see it before becoming aware of it: the slight pressure of it, the stickiness of his skin beneath the padding. In the next moment, he sees the dull glint of the D-ring, embedded in the band’s tough exterior; clipped to it is a carabiner, which in turn is clipped to a loop of skipping rope, which in turn is tied to the bed post, with a knot (Ransom knows) that can be released with one firm tug, but knowing that does nothing to stop the primal surge of adrenaline. A twitch of his left hand confirms that it’s also tied up, not that he expected any different.

“Oh, hey, you’re awake,” rumbles Holster from _jesus_ , very close by, his morning-rough voice layered with a bunch of things that Ransom’s disoriented, panicking brain can’t identify right now. He’s breathing fast, hands clenched, the bones in his wrists straining against their cuffs, and he’s lifting his head off the pillow to turn it towards Holster’s voice when a hand pushes it back down and stays there, exerting a steady, quelling pressure.

“Don’t move.”

That triggers a second wave of adrenaline, rushing through his body like battery acid. The shock of it forces a sound from him, something wild.

“Shhhhh,” soothes Holster, gentling his hand and running it down to his neck. Belatedly, Ransom feels where he’s pressed up alongside him, thigh against thigh, flank against stomach. He must have moved like a goddamn chameleon, painfully slowly, to insinuate himself between Ransom and the wall without Ransom waking up. To say nothing of the bondage.

“Color?” asks Holster, a bit too quickly. Ransom’s still panting through his reptilian fear, trying to wrest himself under some kind of control. “Justin?” 

“Green,” he pushes out, though he feels anything but. He’s awake enough to remember now, though. He wants this. Or he thinks he does.

“You sure?” prompts Holster, who is not an idiot.

“Green,” he repeats, just in case the no-talking rule is in effect. Holster will tell him if it is, but still.

“Good,” says Holster, approval warm in his voice. It has the effect it always has, especially when Ransom’s caught unawares and exposed like this. He lets out a shuddering breath and sinks back into the bed.

Holster gives him a minute, hand heavy on his neck, thumb rubbing tiny circles into his skin. Bit by bit, Ransom’s heart stops racing; he realizes he’s been pulling the ropes taut, and relaxes his arms. The wrist bands are actually gym equipment, pilfered from the Samwell Athletics department: apparently people use them with elastic bands, to do resistance training. There were a ton of them, so they didn’t feel too bad about stealing a pair. Well, Holster didn’t, anyway. (“Do you know how much fetish gear costs?!”) The advantage of this set-up is that if Ransom twists his hand a bit, he can open the carabiner himself: that was a prerequisite.

 

(“It’s not that I don’t trust you,” he tells Holster, feeling awkward, but Holster just shakes his head. 

“You don’t have to explain. Whatever you want.”)

 

 _I want this_ , Ransom reminds himself. It’s a want unlike any other: it scares him and shames him, the things he now fantasizes about, or lets himself fantasize about, who knows, maybe this side of him was always there, lying in wait. He’s scared by how much he wants it, in spite of its scariness. If it weren’t for Holster, this positive feedback loop of fear and shame would probably turn him off sex altogether, and/or drive him insane.

Then again, Holster’s what caused the want in the first place, so.

“You’re thinking too hard,” Holster chides him softly, then rolls on top of him until he’s plastered to Ransom from head to toe, folding his hands over Ransom’s, tucking his head between his shoulder and neck. They’ve watched a bunch of kinky porn recently; it’s laughable how different Holster is from the tops in those videos, with their bizarre black leather outfits and aggressive posturing. (“It’s like -“ says Holster, hands groping as if he can pluck the words he’s looking for from the air, “like, your brain is a cat, and I just want to pet it until it’s purring and totally blissed out, if that makes any sense.”) Holster’s more like a kinky sommelier, asking Ransom what he wants to eat and then politely suggesting a good wine. Sure, Ransom could argue, but why would he? This is Holster’s job. Ransom trusts him to make the right choice.

Holster’s weight nearly suffocates him; the heat of his body enveloping Ransom’s has him breaking out in sweat. It’s uncomfortable, and it feels _good._ Ransom tugs at his restraints again, shivering at the reminder that he’s stuck, then shivers harder when Holster presses down on his wrists.

“Relax,” he rumbles, the vibrations passing from his chest into Ransom’s. “Just relax for me. No talking. You’ve been super tense, past couple days.”

Well, it’s been worse, but - yeah, Ransom’s not gonna contest that. There’s a bug going around campus that has half the team hacking up lungs, his lab course is taking up an unreasonable amount of his time, and he’s trying and failing to land an internship for the summer. Stuff like that. Nothing he can’t handle.

“Tell me how many days it’s been since your last orgasm,” says Holster, and that’s a direct question, so Ransom mumbles into the pillow: “Twe- no. Thirteen.”

No points at all, in the past three games. One win, two losses, no points.

“That’s a long time.” Holster’s thumbs begin stroking along Ransom’s, slow and deliberate. “I’m no doctor, but that doesn’t sound healthy.”

 _The golden rule, the golden rule,_ chants Ransom in his head, and very carefully doesn’t tense back up. Holster has never once disrespected the golden rule since they started this. Ransom trusts him, he trusts him.

“Let me take care of you,” Holster breathes into his ear, then begins to nibble on it, giving tiny licks behind the shell, around the lobe. Ransom closes his eyes and breathes out in a rush: air rubs past his vocal cords to produce a sound, so soft and high he’s not even sure he really made it. Underneath his body, pinned between his belly and the mattress, his dick is already dangerously hard - two weeks _is_ a long time, it doesn’t take much to wind him up at this point, a fact of which Holster’s been taking gleeful and merciless advantage. That’s fine - it’s kind of, if Ransom’s totally honest, the whole point - as long as he obeys the golden rule.

Holster’s chuckle shakes them both. “Don’t worry, I’m not gonna let you come,” he promises, sounding cheerful and a little dark, like he’s completely confident that he can control what Ransom’s body does and doesn’t do. It sends another dull throb of fear-arousal through him, and he tugs on the restraints again, just to draw it out, surfing it like a wave.

 

(“Okay,” Holster says, slow and neutral-faced. “So…okay. Is this - correct me if I’m wrong, okay, but - also, like, if it is, it’s totally fine, but - is this like a rape fantasy?”

“No!” he almost-shouts, mortified. “Dude, no. Just…just. I want to. Not decide.”)

 

“That’s right, you like that,” says Holster, low and _so filthy_ , grinding his hips down, and Ransom squeezes his eyes shut, feeling himself drop like a slinky going down the stairs. It’s fucking magic, the way Holster can hijack his brain just by talking. They’re still figuring this whole thing out, in fits and sometimes highly awkward starts - Holster didn’t spring fully-formed from the brain of a divine dominatrix, and Ransom’s go-to response to Difficult Feelings was always to ignore them until they came back to manifest as complete meltdowns - but it’s been pretty obvious from the start that Ransom’s cheat code is dirty talk. Since Holster has no shame and doesn’t ever shut up, this works out well.

“Here’s what’s going to happen,” Holster continues, moving in slow, excruciating circles, pressing down, breath hot on Ransom’s ear. “I’m going to open you up with my fingers, nice and slow. Get you wet and loose for me. And then I’m gonna take Annie and fill you up, give you pressure right where you need it, as long as it takes until I’ve milked all that built-up seminal fluid right out of you. Understood?”

Ransom’s gasping a little. Drawing in breath is hard, with Holster’s weight crushing him. Thinking’s even harder, his brain full of white noise. How is it even possible for the words _seminal fluid_ to sound sexy?

“Repeat that back to me, Rans. What am I gonna do to you?”

“Fuck me with Annie. Milk - _unh_ \- my prostate. Not let me come.“

“That’s right, gold star. Color?”

“Green, fucking green, _jesus_.”

“No need to get lippy,” Holster tells him mildly, before biting the skin at the base of his skull, hard enough to hurt. Ransom swallows against the burst of pain, then breathes out in a rush when Holster’s weight lifts off him and his tongue laps over the marks, draws teasing patterns across his nape, travels down his spine, a rapidly-cooling trail punctuated with brushes of teeth and lips.

 

( _”Dude,”_ he groans, dropping his head to Holster’s knee, when Holster loses it halfway through a respectable effort at directing their first blow job. Him on a chair, Ransom kneeling between his legs, both of them trying to pull the mood from awkward into hot. Just when Ransom thought they were getting somewhere - tentative hand in his hair, teeth, tongue and lips finally arranged more or less correctly - Holster had begun to suggest something involving his balls, but cracked up before he could get the words out.

“Sorry, sorry,” Holster gasps, shaking with laughter, and he looks so ridiculous with his dick hanging out, still hard and spit-shiny, that Ransom can’t help but laugh with him.)

 

Holster’s hands drag away from Ransom’s, following the line of his arms - lingering appreciatively, for a moment, on his shoulders - to slide down his back, his waist, his hips, fingers catching on his briefs and pulling them over his ass -

“Ow,” Ransom protests as his dick is trapped behind the waistband.

“Shit, sorry.” He lifts his hips helpfully, and Holster’s hand comes around to free him, and stays, the damp, warm palm curving around the head, and Ransom groans, sagging into it before he can stop himself. It feels amazing; he wants nothing more for Holster to keep his hand there, to grind into it until -

“Orange,” he whispers, not wanting to sound reproachful, but Holster takes away his hand immediately.

“Need a moment?”

He nods into the pillow.

“Rans.”

“Yeah, okay.”

 

(“You need to answer out loud,” Holster says in the slightly querulous tone he gets when he’s stressed, pointing at the screen for emphasis. “With actual words. The guide specifically says so.”

“We don’t need to follow that stupid guide to the letter!”

“Um, yeah, we kind of do, since we have no idea what we’re doing!”)

 

He just concentrates on his breathing for a while, _in-one-two-three_ while Holster sits on his thighs and rummages around behind him _out-one-two-three_ , and tries to direct stern, quelling thoughts at his dick. Wet dreams aside, he hasn’t orgasmed without meaning to since he was sixteen. Just the thought of it makes his skin prickle. 

“You good?”

“Yeah,” he says again, hoping he means it.

“‘Swawesome. Hang onto this for me.” Ransom’s already opened his mouth, too surprised to register what it is Holster’s feeding into it, when he realizes it’s Annie. His whole body convulses; he hears himself giving a cry of wordless, warbled outrage. Holster reacts with hockey reflexes, shoving a knee into the hollow of his lower back, one hand pushing down his head, the other keeping Annie in place, preventing him from spitting it out. 

Ransom trembles; _fuck_ Holster for doing this to him, he was fine ten seconds ago, god, _why is this happening_ , he can’t stop jerking, trying to break free, the cuffs are biting at his wrists and it _hurts,_ the way the Aneros fills his mouth is obscene, the way Holster’s holding him down - he can’t do this, he can’t, he can’t -

“You’re okay,” Holster says calmly from somewhere above him. His thumb comes up to touch the corner of his mouth, unbearably gently compared with the unrelenting force with which he’s pushing Ransom into the bed. “Listen to me. You’re fine. I’m gonna let go in a second, and if you need to tell me red or orange, you can spit it out. Otherwise, I want you to keep that in your mouth for me. Alright, letting go in three. Two. One.”

Ransom feels the pressure drop away, watches Holster’s hand leave his field of vision. He hasn’t seen Holster’s face at all yet, he thinks, nonsensically, as he keeps sucking air through his nose in huge, wheezing gulps.

Maybe a minute passes. He curls his fingers around the carabiners; it grounds him, weirdly. He swallows, feeling Annie bob against his hard palate. Runs his tongue around it experimentally. Behind him, unseen, Holster waits.

“So good for me,” he says, soft and pleased, when Annie stays where it is. Ransom closes his eyes, feeling himself dip under again, like his brain is sinking into cotton wool.

 

(“When I tell you to do stuff ‘for me’, or that, like, you’re good ‘for me’, is that yay or nay?”

Ransom squirms and looks away, his eyes skittering from the desk to the floor to the window. One floor down, there’s a thump followed by Shitty yelling something he can’t quite make out, something about Jack, definitely.

“Rans, look at me.”

“You’re not my dad,” he mutters, but he looks. Holster looks right back, patient and unwavering.

“Yay,” he admits, his face warm. With a flourish, Holster adds a checkmark to his list.

“Nice. I’m into it. Also, FYI, mentioning your dad might as well be your safeword. Instant boner killer. Okay, endearments, including but not limited to ‘baby’, ‘honey’, and ‘sweetheart’, yay or nay?”

He shudders dramatically. “Nay. Not those, anyway. Too Bittle-esque.”)

 

Holster shifts; then pulls his boxers all the way off. “Spread your legs a little? Yeah, like that. Fuck, you look good, you have no idea. Just. Fuck.”

Ransom couldn’t reply to that even if he didn’t have a sex toy in his mouth, and that’s honestly kind of freeing. He can just - let that compliment happen. Bask in it. He needs that, as the first finger, cool and slick, begins to carefully rub back and forth over his asshole; they’ve done this a couple times now, but he’s not sure it will ever be easy, that he’ll ever not instinctively flinch.

Holster knows this, and he keeps his movements slow and even; left hand rubbing circles into the small of his back, right hand methodically fingering him open. Quiet settles around them, disturbed only by the soft, liquid sounds of Holster’s fingers and his low-voiced heads-up whenever he changes what he’s doing: “Gonna add some more lube.” “Two fingers, now.” “Three.”

The beam of sunlight has moved; it fans across the desk, now, glinting off Holster’s glasses. Ransom watches dust motes drift through it, not really seeing, just breathing. The stretch of each new finger stings, then fades away. Annie sits warm and heavy on his tongue.

The feeling of it tugging out of his mouth, gently but insistent, shakes him from his stupor a little. 

“That’s good,” murmurs Holster, close to his ear. “You with me?”

“Green,” mumbles Ransom, pre-empting the question. His dick is soft, and he feels fucked out before any fucking has even taken place. Holster’s a genius, is what he’s saying.

 

(“Are you scared or turned on?” asks Holster, breathless, pupils blown. He’s got Ransom pinned underneath him, after a noogie turned friendly wrestling match turned something else. “I can’t tell.”

“Neither can I,” pants Ransom, heart racing)

 

“Alright, here she comes,” warns Holster, and Ransom blows out a breath, consciously relaxing around Annie’s blunt head. After Holster’s thorough prep, it slips in smoothly, and - oh.

“Unf,” says Ransom involuntarily, wiggling his hips in a fruitless attempt to get comfortable. This is clearly not Annie’s party setting. Holster’s deliberately angling it down, so that it digs into his prostate but not his perineum, and when he starts up a steady, rocking movement of tiny, forceful jolts, it sends prickling pulses through his dick; a distant cousin to the stimulation he craves.

“Any pain?” asks Holster, and Ransom lays on the pout in his grudging, “No.” Holster just laughs, the heartless bastard, never slowing his rhythm.

“Relax,” he says again, with exaggerated patience. “You’re not gonna come, anyway, so just lie back and think of Canada.”

With an effort, Ransom manages not to respond to that with anything other than an eloquent snort. The effect is somewhat ruined by the hitch in his breathing: the toy might not be getting him off, but it’s a different kind of intense, and he feels helpless under the onslaught. With his arms and legs immobilized, and Holster in control of Annie, there is absolutely nothing he can do to hold off the strange, burning pressure, like needing to come but needing to pee _more_.

“Taking it like a champ,” Holster murmurs, encouraging, no longer joking. His movement speed up a little; it punches the air from Ransom’s lungs, and he’s tense all over, he hadn’t noticed but now his muscles are beginning to ache with it. Deep within him, his prostate is like a coal that Holster’s blowing red-hot, without it ever catching fire. He shifts, and feels the sheet cling to his abdomen, come-sticky and lukewarm.

Holster lies down, half beside him, half on top, one arm coming up to curve around Ransom’s head and the other keeping up its relentless massaging. His mouth is right next to Ransom’s ear when he starts talking, a stream of consciousness as drugging as the toy in his ass.

“Relax for me. Come on, Justin, just breathe out. That’s it. God, you beauty. So good, just letting me take care of you, you’re gonna feel much better, I promise. You're gonna feel so good. You deserve to feel good. Working so hard, always on top of shit, you deserve to relax and let me make you feel good. Such a fucking trip, getting to do this, seeing you trust me and let go like this, so fucking hot, Justin, god…”

He’s crying, Ransom realizes distantly, as if it’s happening to someone else, someone he doesn’t even know. That’s why his throat is tight and his pillow is wet and his eyes are burning. He’s crying, like Holster’s massage is pushing built-up tears out of him as well as precome. He both wants for the whole thing to end and for it to never end - he doesn’t know, and it doesn’t matter. It’s out of his hands. 

Holster’s hand strokes over his head, back and forth, in half-time to the push (slower, now, but no less thorough) of the other. His dick, soft and oversensitive, continues to push out globs of come; he’s lying in a puddle of it, now, or so it feels. It feels like it should be dirty, but it’s not: it’s intimate. Fragile, like a noise from downstairs could burst the bubble of suspended time around them.

The sunbeam’s climbing up the wall by the time Holster pulls Annie out, very slowly, as if not to wake him.

“It’s over,” he whispers. “You’re done. That was perfect, Justin. You were perfect.”

He sits up and frees Ransom from his cuffs, rubbing each wrist before settling it on the mattress; then he lies back down, starfished half on top of Ransom, one leg between his legs, right arm hugging around his shoulders.

They lie like that for a while, silent, half-drowsing. Two floors down, the front door opens and shuts; Bitty’s voice follows behind, musical and indistinct as bird chatter, interspersed with Jack’s low monosyllables. In the distance, so faint it’s almost inaudible, a car rumbles past.

“Adam?”

“Yeah?”

“You still hard?”

“Don’t worry about it,” says Holster soothingly, which doesn’t answer the question.

“Are you, though?”

“Chyeah. That was crazy hot, bro. I’ll deal with it later.”

“Or. You could fuck me right now.”

Holster tenses in surprise. “What?”

“Just put on a condom and slip right in. Color?”

“I don’t know if -“ says Holster dubiously, and yeah, okay, Ransom still sounds like he’s flying, but he’s suddenly also sure that that’s what he wants, Holster on top of him, inside him, getting his. 

“Please, Adam.”

When Holster stays silent, he adds, “Trust me.”

Exhalation. The arm around him tightens, pulling him close. “Green.”


End file.
